


Seven Famines and a Feast

by fhsa_archivist



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-22
Updated: 2004-07-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 17:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Each day he starves a little more.





	Seven Famines and a Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

-I- 

 

The future seemed clear: the three of them would be together. In a paroxysm of anticipation he bought a big bed, and pillows and soft sheets and warm blankets. 

 

Then the mirage disappeared. Claire returned to planet-hopping as a Starfleet recruiter. Spock decamped to Gol. His promotion cost him his ship. 

 

Only the bed remains. 

 

Each night he maroons himself in a vast wasteland of pale cotton, the barren expanse around him only emphasizing his desolation. He feels more empty than the Sahara, drier than the Atacama, colder than the Antarctic in winter. 

 

Each day he starves a little more. 

 

 

-II- 

 

At breakfast in the Starfleet mess, he pours maple syrup onto his waffles. Watching the syrup flow, he remembers the glossy amber sweep of her hair, rich and heavy in his hands. Sees it drip through his fingers. Imagines it sweet and warm against his cheek as she presses her slender body close to his. Wonders how it might feel spilling over his chest, his thighs, his groin. 

 

He doesn't remember putting down the syrup. He sits for a very long time, immobilized by memory.

 

No one sees his trembling hand as he pushes his plate aside, the food untouched. 

 

 

-III- 

 

The habits of years die hard; he still turns reflexively, a dozen times a day, to speak to the one who had been at his elbow for so long. Time and time again he hears the sound hang heavy in the air: *Spock, what do you think about . . . Spock, we'll need to . . . Spock, let's . . . Spock, 

Spock, Spock . . .* 

 

Eventually he learns to choke back the words, trapping them behind a jaw clenched tighter than an Aldeberan shellmouth's. But still he turns, turns and turns, a dozen times a day. 

 

 

-IV- 

 

At lunchtime, he steps out to a restaurant down the street. He automatically orders the vegetable lasagna special, then remembers it was what the three of them had eaten, their last meal together.

 

Some masochistic impulse keeps him from changing his order. He stares at the meal for long minutes. When he finally eats, the food is as ashes on his tongue and sits as lead in his stomach. After a few bites, he pushes the plate away. 

 

The owner takes his credit chip. "The food all right?" she asks. 

 

"Fine," he answers, smiling tightly, his expression cold and bleak. 

 

 

-V- 

 

As he climbs the hill toward home, a faint scent of thyme freezes him in his tracks. Claire's scent. Whenever he smells it, he cannot help but think of her. 

 

His eyes devour the scene, willing her presence. But there is no sign of her, only a garden patch releasing its subtle perfume to the air. 

 

He turns toward the fragrance as if towards her, inhaling the memories real and imagined, the hunger gnawing inside him. 

 

He can almost taste her. 

 

He draws one more slow breath, his eyes closed, lashes trembling. Then he opens his eyes and moves on. 

 

 

-VI- 

 

The chessboard looms on the coffee table, an inescapable reminder of happier times. 

 

He remembers the unhurried conversations of their evening chess sessions: Spock's voice low and deliberate, precise without the pedantry of the briefing room; his own voice quiet, unpressured by duty. He misses those conversations, as he misses the comfortable silences when nothing was spoken, everything understood. 

 

He sets up the pieces and reenacts their last match, making the moves of each side in turn. He has done this many times since Spock's departure. 

 

Each time it's like reopening an unhealed wound. Each time, the wound bleeds afresh. 

 

 

-VII- 

 

Late in the evening, when his need for them is a ravening beast in his gut, he can't help but think about how he's managed to lose it all. 

 

Events had been set in motion, truths revealed, and with them had come the fears and doubts. Spock, afraid to deal with his emotions, had run. Claire, thinking their relationship doomed without Spock, had left. 

 

Once again, happiness was dangled before him only to be snatched away. He does not know what to do with his anger, with his overwhelming sorrow. 

 

 

Now that he's ready to love, he finds himself alone. 

 

 

-VIII- 

 

He seeks sleep eagerly, for it is there that he lives as he had once imagined. In his dreams the bed is not a barren waste but an oasis, flowing with milk and honey. 

 

Claire's hair spills through his fingers as he inhales her sweet perfume. Spock is a steady presence by his side. 

 

In sleep he feels no restless hunger, no empty ache. 

 

In sleep the feast is laid out for him. He can smile, and laugh, and eat his fill. 

 

In sleep he can forget that, come morning, the famine will return. 

 

He wishes he could sleep forever.


End file.
